


Brotherhood

by secretagentstarchild



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Feelings, Fluff, Fluff is Harder than I'd like to Admit, Gen, One Shot, War Boy Culture, War Boys Showing Affection, attempt at fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-06-07 10:33:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6800194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secretagentstarchild/pseuds/secretagentstarchild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slit is wandering through the heart of the Citadel, when a noise catches his attention. Weeping. Whimpers. The sound of a world shattered beyond recognition, a familiar life shredded into pieces. He comes across a new warpup - tiny and fragile, freshly shaved and branded - lost in his own pain and terror. </p>
<p>Slit's not a monster. Not even the fiercest of the Warboys can walk away when the youngest pups are in such pain. </p>
<p>He groans, he grumbles, but in the end, he stops to comfort his newest younger brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brotherhood

Slit heard the noise first, a soft murmuring whisper that echoed through the dusty tunnels and steadily grew louder. Weeping like wind that moaned over the sands before a storm, soft, yet tugging with growing intensity.

He frowned, turning the corner as he navigated through the labyrinth of corridors that crossed through the heart of the citadel, shadows thrown across the dirty walls from dim lanterns. He followed the sound quietly, curious. Right. Left. Left. And he came to a complete stop.

Curled up in a forgotten corner, a small body was folded in upon itself, scrawny limbs and the shadows of ribs hinting of a life of constant hunger. White powder covered his skin, a small egg-shell skull bowed low, thin shoulders hunched and arms wrapped around the frail body, shuddering with gasping sobs. 

There was pain in those cries, an aria of fear and hurt and frustration – it was the sound of a world torn apart, the haunting whimpers of a life shattered beyond all recognition. 

The scrape of Slit's boot against stone suddenly halted the sobs, a head snapped up warily, shrinking back as if the fragile body could fade into the shadows. The older warboy tilted his head. 

It was a pup, of course. He couldn't have seen more than fifteen hundred days, his eyes looming so large in such a thin face, and the force of his tears had been enough to carve pathways down his cheeks, black-sooted eyes streaked and white dust etched away into a smear of grey, a mess of clay and powder and grease and tears and snot.

Slit wanted to groan. Wanted to spin on his heel and walk away. But that was impossible. The youngest of the pups always arrived tearful and filled with terror, torn from their lives and thrown in to the dark, brutal brotherhood of the Warboys. But not even the hardest warriors would turn from the youngest of the pups, shrouded in the lat shreds of innocence that would be too quickly shattered.

The warboy sighed. He might have been an asshole who thrived on the thrill of violence and the joy of battle – but his heart wasn't so cold as to ignore the distress of the warpup who was now his brother. He wasn't a monster. Slit shrugged his shoulders, moving a few feet closer, and leaned against the dusty, stone wall across from the child. He slid down its length until he rested on the floor, legs crossing underneath him. Far away enough not to frighten the boy, but close enough to study him.

“What's wrong?” he asked quietly, keeping his voice gentle.

Tears blurred across the brown eyes of the little boy, causing them to shimmer, then spill over, and he ducked his head. His small hands fluttered up to his scalp like tiny birds, still irritated and red from the recent shaving. There was a long sob that tore through his body, a sound that turned into a wail.

Slit could barely remember his own first days. Terror and shadows and the constant burning from the raw flesh of the brand. But those memories were faint, buried beneath the memories of the years that came after.

“I want Mama,” came the pup's whimper, echoing in the tunnel like the lifetime of whimpers that had come before it, torn from the throats of a thousand lost, frightened children who would one day grow up to be the warriors that terrorized the wasteland. 

Slit tilted his head. “What happened to her?” he asked, then immediately regretted it, wincing. It was a foolish question. She was either dead or she had given up her child in return for a few rations of water and the hint of a promise of a better future. 

Those frail shoulders lifted into a shrug, dirty hands muffling his face. “She said t'be good. An' they taked me. An' it hurt.”

Those little hands jerked away from his scalp and slid downwards, hovering over the nape of his neck fingers twitching slightly, but not failing to brush against the bandage slapped there. Slit knew what rested beneath it. Flesh burnt away beneath the brand of Immortan Joe. He could still remember his own branding – though he had few memories of the time Before that. But he remembered the sound of his screams and the smell of flesh burning – his flesh – and hands gripping his head firmly so he couldn't struggle away – and the pain, oh V8, the pain. As if the sun itself had kissed his nape, agony racing through every single nerve like nothing he had ever experienced – it was searing lightning, it was the stab of a knife, it was a bullet slowly burrowing its way through his neck. And when the brand was removed, the pain remained. 

“Wanna see mine?” Slit asked, wanting to distract the child.

There was a sniffle and a hesitant nod, curiosity flickering behind the shimmer of tears. 

Slit turned around, ducking his head to allow the faint light to reveal the silvered ridges of scar tissue. There was another sniffle, and the warboy had to force his body not to jerk away when he felt tiny, tentative fingers reach out to brush against the brand.

“That's real chrome, right?” he said, grinning. 

The boy immediately echoed, barely more than a fragile whisper, “Chrome.” 

“Know what it means?” Slit asked, allowing the child to trace over the brand for a moment before he raised his head again and shifted, facing the pup once more.

The young boy cautiously gave a slight shake of his head.

“Means we belong to Immortan Joe,” Slit said, and he couldn't help the pride that rang through his voice. “Means we're His boys. His war boys. Means we rule the Wasteland, shiny and chrome, fierce and furious. Means no one is strong enough to stand in our way. Means you're gonna be a War Boy too, someday. A warrior that everyone will fear. Means I'm your brother now.”

Those large eyes seemed to grow even larger with every word, tears forgotten, gleaming with awe. “Brother?”

Slit couldn't help it – he reached out with a rough hand, and rubbed that newly shaved, white dusted skull. And he grinned. “You're a Pup now, kid. Which means I'm your brother. And so is every other war boy.” 

The boy offered him a shy smile. The tears had stopped their steady flow, and now, there was a spark of curiosity in the depths of the dark gaze. Inquisitiveness had overpowered the pain of his brand, the aching fear and loneliness – at least for the time being. And now, he was studying Slit with an intensity that almost made the older boy sigh.

The lancer knew what the pup was looking at. Even a child used to the rotten flesh of the dying Wretched would be unused to the brutal scars the Warboys prided themselves on. With the jagged scars spreading across his cheeks, puckered flesh glinting with the metal staples – of course, the pup couldn't look away.

“Go ahead,” he grumbled, though he closed one eye in a wink that softened his tone.

The pup reached out slowly, fingers trembling as if he were about to brush against something frighting – or something worthy of reverence. Such a serious gaze in such a small child.

Slit couldn't help it. He waited for those tiny little fingers to come close, just inches from his scars – and then he growled loudly, turning his face and snapping his teeth, as if trying to take a bite. The child gasped, eyes widening with fright as he snatched his hand away – for a moment, he looked terrified. But when Slit burst into laughter, the boy seemed to recognize that it had just been a game – and he responded with a little giggle. 

The War Boy grinned again, pleased to see the fear overcome so quickly. And even more pleased when the pup showed bravery by immediately reaching out fingers again. This time, Slit held still. He let the pup trace careful fingers over the ridges and bumps, peering closely at the healed flesh, staring with particular interest at the metal staples that sparked and glinted. 

“Chrome,” he breathed softly, offering the new word back to Slit like a gift, brown eyes wide and searching for approval.

Slit ruffled the fresh-shaven scalp again. “Damn right, it's chrome,” he laughed. “And someday, you'll have some wicked scars of your own. Shiny as fuck.”

The child grinned back at him. 

“I'm Slit, by the way.” The warrior leaned forward. “What's your name, kid?” 

The answer was spoken shyly, voice almost a chirp. “River.”

Slit groaned, one hand slapping across his face. Named after Aqua Cola, soft and gentle and sweet? Poor kid would be eaten alive. Nothing gentle survived in the desert. He needed something stronger. “Not anymore,” he told the kid. “You've got a new family now. You're a new pup. Which means you get a new name.”

“I do?” The boy looked puzzled, but there was excitement in his brown eyes. 

Often, pups shed their old names when they put on the dust. Most of the time, it wasn't a choice – they were given a name by their elder brothers, a name they were expected to answer to, whether they liked it or not. Of course, they were allowed to take a new name when they formally became War Boys – but it wasn't unusual for pups to spend their first few years answering to names like, “Roach” or “Roadkill” or “Grub”. Unless they were Named first.

Slit narrowed his eyes, folding his fingers into a steeple beneath his chin, thinking. “You need a name that will strike fear into everyone's hearts. Make 'em quake in their boots and piss their pants. Something truly fierce. Something with style. Unfortunately, Slit's already been taken.” He grinned, throwing another wink.

The pup giggled, almost wiggling against the stone in anticipation.

Slit's voice grew serious again. Soft, grave with importance. The pup had no idea how lucky he was – any name that the Warboy chose now would be sure to stick. He would be given the name of a warrior, a name to grow into, a name to inspire courage and erase his fear.

“Your name is Perish,” he said at last. “For that is what you will bring, reigning down destruction upon the Immortan's enemies. Spilling their blood before they can spill yours. You shall be awaited. And one day, the heroes of Valhalla will call it, and you shall ride eternal upon the highways, gloried and great.”

Those chocolate eyes grew wider, pools of oil that glittered with wonder in the dim shadows. “Perish,” the pup echoed, tasting the name on his tongue for the first time, trying it out. 

Slit nodded in approval. Another grin to diffuse the seriousness of the event. The pup's tears had dried completely and he seemed like he was uncurling from his emotional shell, pushing aside the shackles of his fear. At least, the kid was smiling. 

“Wanna meet the rest of your brothers?” he asked. “I bet you gotta be starving.” 

There was fear again, the boy shrinking back into the shadows, hesitant. Slit watched, silent – he could almost recognize the thoughts racing, corkscrewing their way through the kid's brain. Fear was common as a pup – when you were so small in a world so brutal, terror could be both a strength and a hazard. Fear could keep you wary, sharpening your senses – or it could overpower, make you weak and soft and prey.

He was pleased when Perish finally gave a nod of assent. Though clearly still frightened, the kid wasn't shrinking anymore. He was trying to be brave in spit of it. Facing it. Overcoming it. He trusted Slit.

Slit rose into a crouch, shifting his body to reveal broad shoulders. “Climb on, kid. I'll take you down to the mess hall.”

Perish didn't hesitate – practically leaping onto his back. He was a leech in the form of a boy, hanging on tight, arms crossed around Slit's throat – nothing was going to tear him off. Slit looped his arms around the kid's knees, keeping him firmly in place while he rose to his feet.

“You'd better hang on,” he warned. “Cuz I'm gonna fang it.”

Perish's only response was to tighten his grip. And then Slit ran. Bolting down corridors, barreling down stairs, almost bouncing off of walls, almost knocking over unfortunate pedestrians. He gave a howl as he plunged amongst a knot of warboys, laughing when boys threw curses.

Perish was shrieking with laughter, a non-stop giggle as they flew on their exhilarating ride through the citadel. Fearless. Slit was a motorcycle racing across the blacktop of Fury Road, engines gunning and wind howling in the thrill of the hunt. Wild and free and laughing with the rush of it all.

When they finally arrived at the mess hall – Slit was gasping for breath, sweat stinging across his blackened eyes, but he still had enough oxygen to manage a laugh as he burst through the door. Within, there was a riot of noise – the chaos of hundreds of boys scrambling for rations, slurping down a few faint swallows of Aqua-Cola, yelling and snarling and laughing and fighting within the large caverned room stuffed with haphazard tables slapped together, benches and boys and a roar of sound. The cacophony was deafening – or it would have been, if it wasn't the music of normalcy. Perish's grip tightened on his throat. 

Slit's eyes scanned the sea or white dusted faces, finally nodding with satisfaction when he saw the one he wanted. “C'mon. I'll introduce you to my driver. He can be a right idiot sometimes, but he's still real shine.” 

Nux's eyes widened at Slit's approach, _almost_ managing to hide a smirk at the sight of his fierce, wild lancer with a pup clinging to his back. Beside him, Morsov was telling an animated story to the twins, Rivet and Diesal, not even noticing when Nekro reached beneath his waving arms to steal a piece of stale bread off of his plate. Gauntlet was yelling, looking like he was going to start swinging fists at any moment, but Apex was rolling his eyes and with a few sharp retorts, seemed to deflate the situation.

“Down,” Slit ordered, not unkindly, twisting his body and leaning down. Perish immediately released his stranglehold upon the lancer, sliding off silently – looking down at his fingers as seven pairs of eyes swiveled to stare at him. His face was still a mess – a smear of dust and kohl and snot that gave evidence to the rivers of tears that had cascaded down his cheeks – but no one said a word. For a long moment, there was silence.

“I'm Nux,” he was relieved when his driver smiled, shifting on the bench to create a child-sized space beside him. “Come sit with me.”

Slit cleared his throat. “His name is Perish,” he growled significantly, eyes narrowing as he stared at each of their faces. He needed them to know that straight away, before another tried to dub the kid something more traditionally pup-like. 

“Chrome,” Perish repeated his new favorite word, his voice barely more than a whisper.

The single word was answered with a roar of approval, and suddenly, it was as if Perish had been amongst them for ages, immediately accepted into the fold. Rivet was laughing, reaching over to rub the fresh-shaved skull. Apex was nodding thoughtfully, saying, “Perish is a real shine name.” Nux was displaying his chest scars proudly, while the kid's eyes grew larger, more luminous as small fingers poked at the intricate designs.

Morsov shouted over his shoulder, “Need some grub over here,” but it was Nekro who signed and rose from the table, returning with a bowl of steaming something – sliding it over until it came to a rest of front of Perish. It took Nux whispering encouragement before the kid finally dug in, attacking his food with a ferocity that made them laugh again, slapping him proudly on the back. 

Slit grinned to himself, elbowing Gauntlet for more room as he climbed onto the bench, ignoring the boy's grumble. He snagged the bread off of Nux's plate, smirking as he tore into the chunk of loaf that felt more like brick that food. Across the table, Perish's fist was curled around a spoon, and he started talking animatedly to Nux, gesturing towards the bandage on his nape, already learning the pride that the War Boys took in their scars, the strength that they symbolized – and Nux was making enthusiastic noises of appreciation, which only served to make Perish beam.

The lancer nodded, pleased. The kid was brave. Especially considering he was barely more than a sprog. Less than an hour before, he had been weeping in pain and heartache and so much fear, frail body folded like a shell, collapsing like the casing of a spent bullet. But he had overcome it all – and now, Perish sat amongst his new elder brothers, gazing up at them with wonder and excitement burning in his eyes, soaking in their words as if each syllable was gilded in importance. 

Yeah, Slit thought to himself. The kid was gonna make a fine Warboy someday.

They'd make sure of it.

**Author's Note:**

> Yay! Thank you for reading! I'm trying to practice fluffy things, instead of the angsy I usually thrive in - so this one-shot is a bit of an experiment. The War Boy culture is so fascinating, and I love the small glimpses of interaction between pups and boys within the movie - strangely affectionate in such a fierce society. But then, it makes sense. In my mind, war boys are kind to the youngest of the pups, and the young boys soak up their teachings and learn to revere Immortan and the V8 and become completely devoted to the cause - far more effective for fanaticism than beatings and fear. As they get older, life gets darker and harder - helped by the fact that the pups try to emulate their elder brothers, disdaining softness and admiring strength. But I like the paradox in my head, of fierce, cruel warriors who wouldn't hesitate to slaughter a scavenger for the boots that he wears - comforting the little pups who have been torn from everything they have known and thrust into this brotherhood, protecting them from the crueler Imperators and the harshness of the Citadel until they are old enough to withstand it. 
> 
> Also, blame Tumblr for posting too many adorable images of our favorite lizard king with wide-eyed pups.


End file.
